


Giveth And Taketh Away

by Kiko_Murda



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amatuer Angelologist Has OPINIONS, Angst, Aziraphale & Crowley's Excellent Adventure, Chronic Pain, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Other, Probably Inaccurate World History, Trauma, abuse of footnotes, angel lore, demon lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 02:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20631293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiko_Murda/pseuds/Kiko_Murda
Summary: Five things Crowley gained after his fall. One thing Crowley lost. And one thing that means none of it matters all that much.





	1. +1 Stammer

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my fabulous beta [Milky_Etoile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milky_Etoile) who took the bullet that was the incoherent first draft for all of you. And also the bullet that was the draft after that. You know what, I should probably just send her a bulletproof vest. I ended up having to break this up into chapters because of my footnotes, but it's intended to be read as a whole, so hit that “Entire Work” button for the optimal experience. Also, please pardon my subpar coding skills.

Soho, 1975

Aziraphale practically glowed with the joy of sitting at a table littered with the detritus of a meeting between earthbound celestial and infernal powers. There were those delicious almond croissants from that charming little bakery they had stumbled upon in Hyde Park; and the lovely teacups Crowley had given him as a gift...oh, thirty years ago? They were quite stunning, regardless. If you tipped them to the light, the relief of a geisha was clearly embossed on the bottom, but otherwise impossible to see. Terribly clever. There was, of course, the requisite ashtray, piled high with both their cigarette butts. And no such tableau would be complete without the bottle of whiskey Crowley periodically tipped into his tea. It was really quite perfect.

Even if Crowley pretended not to notice, Aziraphale knew his halo was blazing with the love[1] of it all. Suffice to say, an excellent way to recover from that dreadful shark film Crowley had insisted they see. The climax was incoherent- that's not how pressurized tanks work _ at all _. Granted, John Williams had written the score and it was brilliant, as to be expected from such a talented composer. So really, the whole affair could be considered a wash.

"Listen! Not even you can deny that Faulkner was a hack and a-" Crowley garbled his words a moment, but smoothly recovered. "-And a thesaurus abuser."

"Bite your tongue!" Aziraphale gasped. It was very fortunate for his counterpart that, as an angel of the Almighty, Aziraphale didn't love him any less despite his literary opinions. It was a close call, though.

He turned his eyes to the bookshelves as if worried they had heard Crowley's blasphemy. They appeared to have taken Crowley's statement with aplomb, but even so, Aziraphale was still rather wroth. He spun back, fussily wiggling himself deeper into his favorite chair. If he got a little satisfaction from the way Crowley braced himself for a tirade, well, heaven never had to know. "_ The Sound and the Fury _ is a masterwork! It's some of the best writing to come out of the colonies! You can’t just dismiss a work because the author makes you work too hard[2]. It may be a bit much stylistically," he allowed, "but that's part of its greatness."

"Y-we-" Crowley began incoherently, then subsided with an irritated hiss. Aziraphale lit another cigarette and waited him out. Crowley's stammer was hardly new, but it never ceased to frustrate the poor dear.

An instant later, he scolded himself for the thought. Aziraphale knew it was uncharitable. He, himself, had been rather put out at the throttling of his own power after the fiasco in Eden. He shouldn't have been, he knew. It wasn't as if the Archangels had left him helpless- he still had what he needed for his post on earth. It just...grated. It had come as an enormous relief when Crowley confirmed that he hadn't been otherwise diminished[3], which, he reflected, was pure vanity.

"'A bit much!'" Crowley finally spat "A bit much? It's impenetrable. What, I ask you, is the actual point of writing a novel if it can only be read sensibly while on an acid trip?"

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Tried it, have we?"

Crowley unleashed a halting string of consonants again. It _ was _ really bad today, wasn't it? Aziraphale briefly contemplated the aggravation of getting his words constantly stuck in his teeth. He supposed, strictly speaking, that while the stammer _ wasn't _ new, it hadn't come factory standard, either[4].

"What I'm sayin' is, if you have so much to say- so much that it fills a novel, wouldn't you write it so that someone could read it without a flow chart and text printed in five different colors?" He flicked his gaze toward the particular volume in question, sitting innocently on Aziraphale's desk. "Isn't the goal to be understood?"

"Fourteen colors[5] ," Aziraphale corrected. "And I'm not sure that it is," he continued, mouth curling with affection, partially hidden with a veil of smoke. Asking questions. Always asking questions, even in the midst of a harangue. Not even a fall could change an angel's purpose[6].

_ Didn't you have a sword? _

_ Not the kids? _

_ Need a ride, angel? _

Crowley might insist otherwise, but he still served Her Will, whether he admitted it to himself or not.

"I think the goal might be to get it out. An exorcism, of a sort."

At this, Crowley chuckled fondly, eyes alight. He gestured grandly at the shelves around them. "U-ch...And here's an angel sitting in a shop full of other people's demons."

Aziraphale smiled sweetly and drained his teacup, then refilled it with Crowley's eighteen-year-old scotch. He caught and held serpentine eyes(exposed only here, only for him,) thumping the bottle back on the table to be sure he had Crowley's full attention. "Oh no," he averred mildly. "Mine is here, too."

Crowley's mouth dropped open and he made another incomprehensible series of sounds. Eventually, he seemed to surrender to speechlessness and reached for the bottle, eyes unwaveringly fixed on his teacup. Aziraphale settled back in his chair with a happy shimmy, quite pleased with himself. He wondered if it counted as Pride, taking credit for Crowley's impediment. No, he decided with a triumphant drag. It was his reward for enduring terrible shark films.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1It would be some years until Aziraphale learned that Crowley could not sense love and wasn't pretending anything. This revelation would clear up more than a few interactions they'd had over their long acquaintance.[return to text]  
2Crowley and the author are of the firm opinion that you absolutely can.[return to text]  
3Aziraphale had been bemoaning the limitations of being a Principality and Crawley had inhaled her drink. She sharply reminded him between coughs that she was dumb, not deaf* and she recognized a cherub's halo** when it was trying to scare the shit out of her, ta ever so!  
*Approximately. Listen, translation is an art and this was a conversation between two supernatural entities regarding a method of communication humans do not have. A direct translation from the Enochian wouldn't have done any better, and likely a whole lot worse.  
**Despite human conception in religious art, Aziraphale's halo, or any angel's for that matter, was not a glowing disk radiating from his head. It is easy to forget that as metaphysical beings crammed into human meat suits, our "heroes" have several senses that have no easily conceivable analog.[return to text]  
4Angels were created as perfect beings; they knew and single-mindedly pursued their purpose, their bodies never wore down or needed sustenance other than the love of the Almighty. They were Perfect. Eternal. Unchanging.[return to text]  
5This limited-edition text wouldn't be printed until 2012, but Crowley had got wind of it from some soothsayers he was friendly with in hell and well...the laws of causality should never be so casually upended, but, you know, _demon._[return to text]  
6If Aziraphale exerted himself, he could _just_ catch the sweet whisper of test radiating from the remains of Crowley's halo at this distance. It was barely the gentlest sigh, the susurration of fingers through lush fur. It was so very different from the implacable bark of his celestial siblings. Infinitely superior, in Aziraphale's opinion.[return to text]


	2. +2 Sleep

New York City, 1951

With a relieved sigh, Crowley spread herself across the bed like an ill mannered starfish. Strange, how a night on the town could take it out of you. It wasn't as if she'd been exerting herself all that much. Her handlers hadn't bothered her for anything strenuous, lately. Not that there was much to strain about. The Cold War was shaping up to be nothing more than two superpowers glaring at each other across an ocean.

Rather reminded her of the detente between her current and former bosses. Still, it was good fun. There was plenty of paranoia to play around in. She was determined to find out who Aziraphale was spying for. He insisted he wasn't a spy at all, but Crowley knew his tells; not to mention her handlers had asked her to report on his movements.

She stretched luxuriously, savoring the feel of the cool sheets beneath her naked back, and drowsily listened to Aziraphale bumping around in her tiny kitchen, no doubt seeking tea. She'd told him to stay the night, really sell the bit. It surprised her how easily he agreed.

She briefly considered snatching the pack of smokes off the nightstand and lighting up, just to get Aziraphale to storm in and scold her. But...no. She was tired. And there was something so delectable about sleeping, especially these days, with proper mattresses and down pillows and window shades. Pure decadence.

They had gone to the Met for their 'date' as part of her cover(_ their _ cover, she was certain) as lovers. Giselle had been lovely; the dance of the Wilis enraptured her every time. She knew how it ended, of course, but she always rooted for their revenge anyway. On the bright side, being so well acquainted with the ballet allowed her to enjoy the best show in the house: Aziraphale's face.

His expression was so wonderfully mobile. He gasped and swooned and went into raptures during the most difficult choreography. His eyes welled as Berthe wept over the body of her daughter. He chewed his lip when Hilarion was cornered....Crowley smiled besottedly to herself as she drowsed.

It had been quite a while since her time in the Bolshoi- you couldn't just strap on pointe shoes after a century or two of neglect[7], but the idea of performing for Aziraphale was very enticing. There wasn't any proper room in this shoebox of a flat, so she would have to borrow a studio. Or miracle them into a theater after it closed for the night. Wouldn't that be delicious?

_ She sat on the edge of the stage, graciously allowing Aziraphale to put on her shoes. Those strong, gentle hands darted around the laces, head bowed over his work as if in veneration. She stared down into his crown of pale curls, marveling at how intimate the shadows made this moment. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to each of her ankles when he was finished and she drew her feet onto the stage. _

_ "Watch me," she commanded, low and soft, so as not to disturb the almost sacred silence around them. _

_ She rose, careful of her tutu and watched as Aziraphale stepped back, slipping into the darkness to sit, eyes fixed on her all the while. There was no radio, no record player; they didn't need it. She tread to the center of the stage, admiring the gloss of the walnut planks, listening to the music her graceful weight wrung from them. And then...she began. _

_ There was nothing quite like it. She reveled in the power and flex of her body and pushed it for more. She was proud of her skill, proud of her strength. She was beautiful. More beautiful in this moment than she had ever been. This is what she was made for. _

_ And he was watching. She spun and launched herself towards the heavens in sheer delight. She flaunted the graceful line of her back, stretching and reaching and trembling with the effort. For him. The one whom she loved above all things. The one for whom she was made. Every step was gift for him. For her. For Her. "Alleluia," she whispered in the ecstasy of a spin. "Amen. Amen." _

_ And when she came to a stop, chest heaving, the core of her very being exposed, she stepped toward the edge of the stage and waited for her beloved. _

_ And waited. _

_ She searched the dark theater without much hope. The shadows were impenetrable; she couldn't possibly see into the audience. But she knew. She could feel the widening gulf inside her. She was alone. Her beloved was not there. She had been forsaken. _

_ She stood at the edge of the stage and stared out into the featureless void. She could feel her sisters at her shoulders, felt them whimpering and whipping the last vestiges of their halos about, trying to catch hold of anything solid. They pressed so close to her that she could feel their tutus brushing her calves. They were begging. Pleading. _

_ why _

_ forgiveness please forgiveness _

_ mercy _

_ motherfatherbeloved please _

_ There was no answer. The hollow place inside her told her they wouldn't be heard, _ couldn't _ be heard. Not anymore. Nor ever again. _

Be brave _ , she told herself. She wanted nothing more than to turn and run home and fling herself at the foot of the throne, put on ashes and wail and rend her clothing. But it was already too late. She heard the curtain drop(heard the gate slam shut) behind them. There was no place else to go. Nothing else to do. _ Be brave. _ She steeled herself. _

_ She stood on the edge of the stage and looked down into the sulphurous coals of the infant universe. They twisted and roiled cruelly, but she did not cry. _

_ She gathered her nerves. _ Be brave _ . She stepped off the stage. For one mad moment she thought(hoped, _ believed _ ) that she would be caught. This was a test. It had to be a test. She just had to endure... _

_ All thoughts of tests and courage were abandoned an instant later. There was no room for anything at all but the agony and the screams and the f a l l i n g _

Aziraphale's hand was in her hair. She stared dry eyed at the ceiling and carefully matched the water stains to the map in her memory. New York. She was in New York.

"You're alright. It's alright. I'm right here." She felt the flare of Aziraphale's halo and submitted to the familiar basso rumble of **PROTECT** , letting it sweep over and through her. She reached back for him reflexively, protect me. 

As always, he didn't react. Her throat tightened but she glowered resolutely at the mildew dotting the plaster and refused to give in. She was brave, after all. So she simply laid in Aziraphale's arms and wished he would let her smoke in bed. She _ was _ brave...but she did not sleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7Not to mention how she'd well and truly fucked herself up walking to the altar of that Anglican church a few years back. She'd recover with time, of course. Last time it had only taken a century or so.[return to text]


	3. +3 Choice

Greece circa 300 BC

This was, Crawley mused as she was jounced along, absolutely the _ stupidest _ thing that had ever happened. Here she was, a demon from the deepest pits of hell, the literal _ serpent of Eden_, choking back tears with her heart in her throat, slung across a saddle like a hunting trophy. It was just bloody undignified.

The next time she had a bright idea, she was just going to walk into the sea and drown herself. It would save a lot of time and misery. It had _ seemed _ like an elegant solution: assume the role of Pythia for a few months, drop some vague prophecies to stir up trouble among the humans- maybe direct most of the trouble at Athens, which had been a thorn in her diabolical side since the revolution- report a job well(badly?) done to hell, and bugger off for a few centuries of assignment free me-time.

Naturally, it had all gone bollocks up just as she reached the finish line. It had gotten the job done, at least. Unfortunately, her protracted stint in the Temple of Apollo had done a number on her[8]. Her captor had better hope she didn’t recover anytime soon because she was going to make this wretch regret being born.

She would start simple. A language lesson. No means no.

She was jolted painfully out of her reverie when the horse suddenly shied. Her head gave a dull throb in time with the animal’s panic, then settled into a painful, encompassing pressure. This mortality shit was for the birds. Her captor- what was his name? ‘E’ something. Erasmus?- was swearing at the beast though he quickly got it back under rein.

Oh, Light Bringer, how was she going to explain this one to Dagon? Just to add insult to injury, the angel was part of the Thessalanian delegation that had come with Aegus(?) to consult with the Pythia. It was pretty funny initially. Aziraphale had no control of his expression, never had, and watching him cycle through surprise, delight, consternation, confusion, and ultimately settle on what Crawley had come to call “Oh God, it’s you again” was always good entertainment. It was almost worth the constant bone-deep ache caused by the temple.

Of course, it stopped being funny right around the time she started sensing Eugenius(maybe?) boiling over with bad intent, a poisonous cocktail of lust and envy, all of it directed at her. It gave her pause, but she was already committed. She shoved down her disquiet and plowed on. She was safe in the temple. There wasn’t a fool in Hellas who would so brazenly test the gods’ wrath by violating a sacred oracle.

Except, apparently, Ercole(whatever.) Just her luck. With a great effort of will, she tamped down her panic and set to scheming. Maybe she could turn this around. Seduce him with her wiles and drive him mad when she disappeared, taking all his good fortune with her. She might even destabilize the whole region if she played her cards right and- “Oh, you have _ got _ to be kidding!” she moaned as the deep peal of **PROTECT** abruptly resolved itself from the unpleasant ache in her skull.

The horse reared again, throwing Euripedes. The crunch of bone was especially satisfying; she hoped it was something important, like his neck. But she couldn’t spare the time to enjoy it as she struggled to free herself before- “There you are, dear girl. Just a moment and I’ll have you down.” -that. Crawley was going to discorporate in pure humiliation. That was if Aziraphale’s raging halo didn’t manage it first. Despite his pounding fury, which had Crawley fighting the urge to spread her hood and hiss in warning[9], Aziraphale quickly picked apart her bonds and set her gently on her feet. Bracing herself, she turned to face him; no sense in being a coward now.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” she began, rubbing at her bruised sternum.

“No? Well, that’s a relief! Because it looks like you were posing as a holy woman in order to dispense advice to the most powerful leaders in the world.” Aziraphale had a remarkable gift for stating the obvious in the most lethal way possible. The electric prickling of his halo on her skin already had her halfway to cowed and his rant had hardly started. “And got kidnapped by one of your supplicants. Who I was terribly certain was going to brutalize then discard you. I was very worried- because I thought you were pretending to be an oracle at one the most sacred spots on earth- that you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself from him. What were you _ thinking_, Crawley!”

If she didn’t derail him now, she was going to be getting a stern talking to for the next 30 years. “Ye-we-ngk...That’s beside the point,” she deflected desperately. “Anyway, how did you find me? You didn’t sense-?”

“Of course not,” he snapped savagely, gutting her faint(stupid. So fucking stupid) hope before it ever really bloomed. “I was-” he cut himself off with a sharp jerk of his head. Then came a terrifying, belligerent flex of holy wrath. She only kept her feet through sheer spite and it was a long moment before she realized it was not directed at her.

She turned away(gave her back to a literal avenging angel who was all but frothing at the mouth, what was _ wrong _with her?) to see that Ermolai had recovered his senses and stood up. “What is going on? Who is he?” He turned to Crawley, affronted. “Are you already despoiled?”

Rage flashed hot in her veins, burning all the hotter because of her current embarrassment. Bless it, if the maenads could tear a man limb from limb with their mortal hands then so could she!

“How dare you!” That...was not Crawley. She looked over her shoulder to see Aziraphale bearing his teeth, which was a lot more intimidating than she ever would have given him credit for. He was nearly incandescent as he angrily strode over to Endymion. “You listen here,” he spat as he carelessly healed the shoulder Elpidio had broken when he was thrown. “When the lady tells you ‘no’ it doesn’t mean ‘yes, please.’ And to think you’re a general! What kind of example are you setting for your men? If this is the way you treat people, I may have to side with the Romans after all.” The incongruity of his words and his halo made her gag painfully into the bushes. Ugh, cracked rib.

Content to let Aziraphale vent his anger on someone else for a bit, Crawley took the opportunity to catalogue the rest of the damage she had acquired over her little adventure. Nothing too serious; most of her injuries had come from being trussed up like game, though she did manage to twist an ankle and scrape herself to kingdom come and back when she’d tried to run from Esidore. When she returned her attention to the moment, she was surprised to see Ennis draped over the horse in a familiar and, she knew this from personal experience, very uncomfortable way.

Aziraphale set the horse running with a slap to the rump before turning back to her. “Oh, Crawley, look at you,” he sighed. His wounded expression as he took in her torn dress and bruised wrists hurt more than her actual injuries. The force of his emotions on her rubbed raw core hurt a great deal more than that. Without conscious thought, she flinched and backed up. She knew she was being ridiculous. After four thousand years, she had nothing to fear from him. This was stupid. She was stupid. But Aziraphale came no closer. Instead, the prickling faded and the junkyard dog growl of his halo subsided back into its familiar(safe) configuration.

“May I touch you? To heal you? You can say no.” He didn’t add _ I’m sorry I frightened you _ but she heard it all the same. His earnest face threatened to crack open her heart. She didn’t dare speak; she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t say something humiliating. She nodded.

He approached her with his gentle hands spread wide and conciliatory. She couldn’t hold back the gasp as his halo focused on her. The weight of it was quite nice, actually. Grounding. And the now distant boom of **PROTECT** soothed nerves she hadn’t realized were frayed. Aziraphale finally got around to the laying on of hands and her hurts...no longer hurt. “There’s a village within a dolichos[10] or so if you would rather walk,” he said softly, _ softly. _ The _ if you’re still afraid of me _ was loudly implied. “But I could miracle us elsewhere if you like. Your choice.”

Gentility had always been her one great weakness and she was already riding the ragged edge of a panic attack. She could no longer hold back her tears, though she didn’t give into the sobs clamoring in her diaphragm. She stepped in close and rested her aching head on the angel’s soft shoulder. Crawley sighed and reached out in the old way to express her gratitude. unafraid, she told Aziraphale, inviting the torrent of shielding power into the shadowy places left by Epifanio. The lack of acknowledgment hardly even stung anymore. She took a fortifying breath then answered with her human mouth instead. “Anywhere but Delphi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8Holy ground was holy ground, regardless of denomination, for God is in all holy things. Luckily, the Pythia spent most of her time on a tripod suspended over a crevasse, which neatly circumvented what Crawley thought the largest obstacle of this plan. Hindsight is 20/20.[return to text]  
9Which would have been absolutely pointless even if she had been able to do so. Aziraphale had no fear of her serpent form. Certainly not after that debacle in Pataliputra with the basket and the pungi.[return to text]  
10Approximately 1.5 miles or 2 kilometers and change. And you thought the Imperial system was unintuitive.[return to text]


	4. +4 Pain

Mayfair, 1994

Aziraphale had been looking forward to this night for weeks. It had been so hard lately, attending funeral after funeral, looking at each young man there and gauging how long before they too succumbed. It likely would have mortified heaven to know a demon and an angel ran in the same circles completely by coincidence. They would never have believed that demon was offering succor to the sick and dying, outcasted merely for who and how they loved.

But no matter how hard, they never missed a funeral. Not ever. These poor men couldn’t count on much of anything anymore, not family nor lovers nor even basic human decency. All that was left were Ezra and Toni; who always had a bed to spare, who never flinched or seemed afraid no matter how they were coughed or vomited or wept on.

So they went every time and passed a flask back and forth in front of dozens of caskets, doing their best to pretend they were unaffected. They deserved a night away, to leave Ezra and Toni and their associated troubles at home. But some things were not meant to be.

It seemed that today was another bad pain day in a month full of bad days. Aziraphale wondered if there was any correlation with the emotional toll the AIDS crisis was taking on them all. Poor Crowley. They’d deny it at gunpoint[11], but Aziraphale knew those lines around their mouth. They were his enemies of old. Nearly as old an enemy as Crowley themself, though not half so beloved.

Once, millennia ago, when they were positively soused in Nineveh, comparing war wounds, as it were, Crowley had tried to explain. “No. No, no, no, no no no...sometimes s’like. Sssss...I...It. Is. Like. If someone went into yer bones-”

“That’s ridiculous! D’you know how small someone would have to be to fit into my bones?”

“Y-wh..._ Listen! _” Crawley admonished, trying to make the hush gesture but inadvertently slapping his beer. Fortunately, both beer and straw knew what was good for them and stayed in the vessel. “Sssss….’s like someone hollowed out your bonessss. Ev’ry single one. All...er...seven hundred of ‘em-”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not right[12],” Aziraphale interrupted again. “I-I think that’s too many.” He paused to consider this, weaving gently in place. “Or mebbe not enough,” he amended.

Crowley glowered and smoothed out his skirt. After several false starts, he managed a coherent sentence again. “You’ve no marrow in your bones,” he continued with pointed care. “And then they replaced it with su- with scup...mmmm, with very cold iron but it’s still, y’know, molten.”

He hesitated here, trying to find a better description. “Like...like the heart of a dead star.” This didn’t sound right to Aziraphale either[13], but he was on much firmer ground with bones than astronomy and metallurgy, so let it pass. “An’ it’s heavy. The heaviest. Too heavy to fly. You think- you think your bones might ssssnap just keeping you on your feet.

And you wish they would ‘cause…’cause then maybe the iron would leak out, and you wouldn’t be so cold. That’s-that’s the worst part, right? You can just lay there, do nothin’, but it _ hurts. _ It burns. I-I tried basking, laid in the sun for _ hours. _ Even sat in one of those hot springs, w-h...with the boiling water, right? Nothin’. No good. M’bones are still cold,” he finished tiredly. “My bones still hurt.”

Crowley appeared to have forgotten that conversation or decided to pretend it never happened, but Aziraphale could not. At first, it was small things. He took pains to arrange meetings with Crowley where there were convenient rocks or benches or stools for sitting. How quickly they sat down was a fairly reliable indicator of how well the meeting would go.

He learned Crowley’s tells as well as he had any of his favorite poems. If Crowley was leaning and lifting one leg or the other like a nervous horse, then it was a “cold iron” day. If they swayed in place, they were trying to find a comfortable center of balance. Heavy bone day.

It had taken the better part of four thousand years, but he had finally gotten Crowley to let him fuss a little without too much complaining. And now, now…

“I’ve changed my mind,” Aziraphale announced brightly as he watched Crowley prop a hip against the side table and raise one foot until just their toe was on the floor. “Not in the mood for a concert, I’m afraid. I’m sure someone else can put our tickets to good use.” And as he said it, an out of luck couple at the box office was suddenly informed of two tickets that had somehow been overlooked.

Crowley raised their eyebrows above their sunglasses, deeply suspicious. Which they had every right to be, considering how excited Aziraphale had been yesterday. They removed their sunglasses and surveyed him carefully before acquiescing, sauntering loose-limbed over to the couch. They assumed their usual sprawl and the lines around their mouth lessened fractionally. “Oh? That right?”

“Don’t know what’s come over me!” Aziraphale chirped, snatching up a blanket that hadn’t existed a few minutes ago[14]. With a smile, he threw it around himself and Crowley as he claimed a spot beside them and drew them in with an arm about the shoulders. “Let’s stay here,” he sighed, wiggling to make himself comfortable on Crowley’s war crime of a sofa. He gently maneuvered Crowley to lean against his chest and wrapped them both in his halo. He delicately brushed up against Crowley’s whisper of a presence, so terribly faint despite their proximity. He couldn’t even tell it was pained; but he folded himself around it with all the care he gave his priceless first editions.

It was a pointless gesture. He wasn’t a healer and didn’t have anything resembling the soothing properties of one. He had been made for war, and he had the halo to match; but a small part of him was convinced that if he managed to press himself into Crowley’s bones, then maybe they wouldn’t hurt so much.

And, oh, the poor thing must be truly hurting, as Crowley did little more than grouse an offended “angel” into Aziraphale’s clavicle. “I know, dear. I know. But you must believe I would never tease you. Please. Let me give you this,” he murmured into Crowley’s sweet-smelling hair, running gentle hands on the small of their back, the place he’d seen Crowley massage and try to stretch when they thought no one was looking. “Let it be enough.”

He almost fooled himself into thinking he sensed the will-o-wisp of Crowley affirm that it was. That _ Aziraphale _ was enough. Impossible, of course. Impossible before ever they met.

In reality, Crowley made no answer at all, simply went limp in his arms. Which, he supposed, was answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11Had done exactly that at least once in Aziraphale’s long memory.[return to text]  
12It wasn’t.[return to text]  
13But it was. This information wouldn’t be available for some twenty centuries, though.[return to text]  
14Crowley would never condescend so far as to admit to liking homely comforts like throw blankets, let alone allow them into his flat.[return to text]


	5. +5 Joy

Surrey, 1933

Aziraphale appeared uncertain of Crowley’s most recent acquisition(or maybe just Crowley) despite having summoned him herself. She circled it suspiciously, her halo muted with anxiety. Which, he admitted, was fair enough considering how they’d left things in the 1860s. But she could have reached out earlier if it bothered her so much. He could hardly have done so, seeing as he’d been sleeping[15].

Aziraphale completed her circuit and returned to Crowley’s side, her trouser legs flashing the ankle strap of her mary janes every now and then as a breeze ruffled past. Crowley wondered how many engagements she was responsible for ending and exactly how long the parade of besotted young wives trailing after the angel had gotten before the men of the village ran her out of town. That’s what happened when you got out of London proper- couldn’t get away with nearly half the things they wouldn’t bat an eyelash at in Trafalgar Square.

“And you’ve done this before?” she asked again, tugging anxiously at the edge of her waistcoat.

Crowley glanced down at her, all affronted dignity. “I got it here, didn’t I?”

She flushed a sweet shade of berry and rushed to soothe him. “Yes, of course. And I am grateful. I...I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she stammered. “But you did and I- well, thank you.”

“Don’t take it to heart. It was on my way, is all.”

“Nevertheless,” she said briskly, breaking eye contact. “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been stranded another day. Gabriel has been absolutely relentless about accounting for my miracles and I…” She heaved a massive sigh. 

He opened the passenger door and gestured in lieu of accepting her gratitude. “I take it they’re still on about Eden?” He tsked. “I didn’t think heaven could hold grudges. What with forgiveness being divine and all that.”

“I suppose hell has made a speciality of it?”

Crowley chuckled. “We’ve been holding grudges since before time began. Heaven could take _ lessons. _”

“And do you? Have any grudges?” she enquired, halo flat and unhappy.

Crowley scoffed, rolling his eyes behind his shades. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, though her brow furrowed and her lips turned down at the corners, clearly displeased. Well, what did she want from him? He was a demon for G-hell’s sake! He’d been grinding his axes for so long that it occasionally took a minute to remember what he was even doing it for.

Conversation apparently over, she slid into the Bentley and carefully drew in her coattails so Crowley could shut the door for her, like a proper gentleman. He was sorely tempted to press a kiss to her knuckles while he was at it. After all, it couldn’t be any more inappropriate than a woman in a man’s suit. Or that same woman going for a long drive with a man who was not her husband. _ How’s that for fraternizing? _ He crushed the impulse and rounded the front of the car to crank the engine before sliding in himself.

“Are you quite sure about this, dear boy?” she was saying, looking a bit more nervous as the car rumbled to life around her. “It’s not that I don’t want to, I just...er...well, I’ve never really been in one of these before.”

“It’s the only way to travel, angel,” he opined loftily, giving the steering wheel a fond pat. “Better than any train. You’ll see.”

Aziraphale did not look very convinced but eventually settled back into the seat, tugging at her watch chain in apprehension. With a last devilish smile, Crowley threw the Bentley into gear and they were off. It was mere seconds before Aziraphale was gripping his thigh and sliding across the bench to him in apparent terror. “Oh good Lord, Crowley! Slow down!”

Crowley struggled not to laugh as he was buffeted by the tense press of Aziraphale’s halo, now grumbling threateningly and engulfing him, searching for the source of her fear. Crowley very carefully didn’t think about the implications of the guardian of Eden instinctively protecting the creator of Original Sin. “Whatever for?”

“You’re going to _ kill us _ and I only just got used to having breasts again!”

“Relax, Aziraphale. You trust me, don’t you?”

“I’m reconsidering,” she growled between clenched teeth.

This was it. This was _ it _. Flying down an empty road with an angel in your lap was surely the only civilized way to travel. This time he couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15And he hadn’t slept some seventy years just to avoid her. Don’t be stupid.[return to text]


	6. -1 Halo

Ur, circa 3100 B.C.

Wasn’t it just like a demon to disappear just when you needed her? Aziraphale’s eyes darted over the crowd, hoping to find a break in the mob and escape. She had been backed up against a wall in the artisan’s district and was now well and truly cornered. Oh, she’d really cocked it up this time.

Well...she wasn’t _ exactly _ sorry. No girl that age should be married off and expected to bear children! That was just a death sentence.

She spread her halo and searched the city for her opposite number again. It was a long shot, but Crawley had seemed reasonable enough. They hadn’t interacted since the Garden but they were both the only powers stationed on this planet so...solidarity. Right? But her search turned up nothing.

How could she have gotten out of Ur so fast? Aziraphale had clocked her by the Great Ziggurat only an hour before. It wasn’t at all standard procedure to throw around heavy-duty miracles like teleporting without good reason. So where the blazes was she?

The crowd started to pick up rocks. If she didn’t do something quickly, she was going to be discorporated. The idea of having to deal with Gabriel after she had so recently been busted down to Principality was genuinely horrifying[16], but she still wasn’t used to her new limitations. Two spheres was a hell of a demotion. Her miracles felt unwieldy and barely controlled, and with this many humans around…

She threw her halo as wide as she could manage, seeking Crawley, calling for her. **SURROUNDED** , she thundered. **REINFORCEMENT**. There was no response. “Please,” she begged the men around her. “Please don’t! This is wrong!” The first stone flew and struck her shoulder. Now was the moment of decision. Either she allowed herself to be killed and punished by a disgustingly smug Gabriel, very likely losing her post here on earth...Or she defended herself. And there was no telling what the results of that might be. She might kill any humans in the immediate vicinity. She might level the city. Or she might not accomplish anything whatsoever. 

It was hardly a choice at all. The second stone struck her collarbone and then there were too many to count. “Elohim,” she whispered. Maybe if she got the Almighty’s attention, she would be spared. “Adonai. Tzevaot. Mi’she’amar V’haya Ha’olam-”

“Would you stop chanting the names of God and _ run _?” Her eyes snapped open in surprise(when had she closed them?) and she saw several stones suspended motionless in the air. She turned slowly to her savior, the flame-haired demoness she had been certain abandoned her to die. “Oh, bless it, angel! I can’t hold them for eternity,” Crawley snarled, hauling a still senseless Aziraphale to her feet. “Come on!”

She allowed herself to be dragged behind her benefactor, still trying to parse exactly what was happening with limited success. She reached out for Crawley’s halo, hoping to gain some clarity on the sequence of events but- “Where are you?” Aziraphale demanded as they ducked into an alley. Crawley ignored the question and restarted time with a wave of her hand.

_ Now _ she was wary. The demon standing right in front of her, powerful enough to toss around temporal miracles for _ enemies _, might as well have been a wall for all that she registered to Aziraphale’s senses. “Are you hiding? Don’t bother. I saw your wings in Eden; I know what you are. Why didn’t you answer when I called?” Crawley simply stared at her mutely, her jaw flexing as if chewing on her responses. Still no sign of a halo besides Aziraphale’s own. It was starting to get extremely disturbing. “Alright, you’ve had your fun. Now show yourself!”

Crawley dropped her eyes and mumbled something.

“What?”

“I said-” she hesitated, clearly wishing to be anywhere else, though Aziraphale was forced to divine that from body language. This would all be so much easier if Crawley would just drop the human act. “I said, ‘I did answer.’”

“Stop it!” Aziraphale snarled, nerves twanging with the wrongness of the situation. She shoved Crawley against a mud brick wall with hands and halo, forcibly reminding the demon exactly who she was dealing with. “Enough is enough! Now, treat with me.” Crawley was trembling under her fingers. Again, distressed by human standards of expression, but she made no peep to Aziraphale’s angelic senses.

“Ngk.” This appeared to be the only response Crawley could make for a solid minute. She opened and shut her mouth several times and Aziraphale was rapidly losing her patience. “Look-I-Please,” she gritted finally. “If I agree that you are very scary, will you dial it back? I can hardly think when you’re trying to deafen me.”[17] After a moment of consideration, Aziraphale diffidently smoothed her halo. The mess with Gabriel must have really gotten to her; she wasn’t typically so on edge, though she was hardly going to apologize for roughing up a demon. 

“Thanks. Er...what I was trying to say-,” Crawley flustered, “well-i...I did respond. Or, I tried to respond. It’s...complicated.” She looked thoroughly miserable now.

Aziraphale was unmoved. “Uncomplicate it.”

Crawley laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “You’re merciless. Typical.” She heaved a sigh. “Fine. You didn’t hear me- you can’t sense me because...because there’s nothing to sense. Alright?” Her shoulders moved beneath Aziraphale’s hands, probably a shrug. “E-wh,” she hissed and blessed under her breath. “I’ve never met anyone in hell who does. Have a halo, I mean. I don’t even think Lucifer has one anymore.”

Crawley may as well have stopped time again. Aziraphale’s mind spun on itself endlessly, trying to make sense of the words just spoken to her. “W-what do you mean the Morning St-” and the penny dropped.

Aziraphale stepped back as if burned and tried to discreetly wipe her hands on her shawl. Finally, she looked up at the...the creature sent by hell to walk the earth with her. She could barely contain her horror and disgust for the empty air where an angel would have stood. Where even the shapeless smudge of a human would have been. And oh, God have mercy! Hell itself was full of these things. In equal numbers to the Host. All empty of emotion, all completely without a shred of Grace. Hollow, but too powerful to die. Aziraphale finally understood why the Archangels had stomped out any usage of ‘fallen angel’ to describe the denizens of hell. Oh, Michael was right. They were no kind of angel at all!

The demon’s mouth twitched and she nodded as if she’d had something confirmed. “Yeah. Right. You owe me one, now, so...” She dropped her eyes to the dirt again. “I’ll just...take my leave, then.” She moved away down the alley. “Oh, and angel?” she called over her shoulder. “I lost mine, but I can still read yours.”

Aziraphale let her go without acknowledgement, far too heartsick over what the siblings she had lost in the War must have become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16 For one thing, the bastard needn’t have looked so pleased about it.[return to text]  
17Or blind. Or overwhelm the sense organ of your choosing to insensibility.[return to text]


	7. ∞ Unconditional Love

South Downs, 2020

It wasn’t a big deal. Or at least, it hadn’t been. Or at least, he’d grown resigned to it after six thousand years and however long an eternity there had been between his exile and the creation of time. And Aziraphale didn’t seem to care. Not anymore, anyway. Not after the first fifteen hundred years or so. Honestly, it wasn’t even an obstacle to daily life. He was on a planet full of humans, the majority of whom thought a halo was something you could play frisbee with. So...not a big deal. Obviously. 

The trouble with making arguments to himself was that...Well, it was Crowley’s very nature to poke holes in any defense put to him. He was _ very _good at it. Always had been. “Not a big deal” tore like wet toilet tissue under his scrutiny. He sat in the darkening living room, unmoving until the chime of the hideous grandfather clock Aziraphale loved so roused him and he remembered to put the lights on. Ruminating in the dark was a bit too much, even for Crowley.

Aziraphale was bustling around at the back of the house, in the library by the sound of it. Probably rearranging the shelves. And Crowley, sad bastard that he was, was out here. Alone. Sitting in silence. Trying not to think about Anathema’s innocent question. He should have seen it coming, honestly. She was a witch; she could experience halos...see auras...whatever the humans were calling it. She couldn’t truly utilize the sense, no human really could. Not in the way he and Aziraphale did. Human halos and the requisite senses were nowhere near sophisticated enough. Nevertheless, Anathema did experience them in her limited way and she’d finally asked what was wrong with Crowley.

Well, no, not in those words. Of course, she hadn’t. Not even Americans were that rude. But that was the heart of her question. Crowley had choked and hemmed and hawed[18] but Aziraphale had merely shrugged and said, “Demons don’t.” Like it was that simple. Easy as falling off a log. Easy as falling.

He flung himself out of his chair with a growl and stalked to the liquor cabinet. It _ was _ simple, bless it all. They were the only two beings who’d been given the boot by both heaven and hell, and now Aziraphale had no choice but to content himself with the companionship of an abomination for the rest of time. Just as he had for the previous six thousand years. He wasn’t all that torn up about it, so why should Crowley be?

He slammed back his first neat scotch then reached for a second tumbler and poured another for himself and Aziraphale. He returned the decanter to its place a bit too roughly and worried a moment that he would have to miracle glass shards out of the carpet. The bottle held. Miniature crisis averted, he grabbed his drinks and skulked his way to the library, trying not to get emotional over the fact that Aziraphale had chosen this cottage specifically because it had no stairs[19].

It was pretty fucking embarrassing how one stupid question had so completely wrecked him that he was getting weepy over the layout of his own blessed house. _ And you call yourself a demon. _ At last, he came upon Aziraphale, humming and reshuffling, completely absorbed in his task. Crowley leaned against the doorway just to watch for a moment. It was really very cute, and Crowley had absolutely no business whatsoever feeling bitter because of some stupid fantasy where he was _ whole _ and Aziraphale had been alerted before Crowley ever left the living room and cleared off a spot on the coffee table for the glasses and knew the second Crowley hit the doorway and-

He must have made some sort of noise. Aziraphale turned and his whole face lit up, which was a balm to his sore heart. But then he reached out to greet Crowley properly and the comfort was burned away at the first brush of **PROTECT**. Two crystal tumblers shattered on the hardwood floor. “Crowley?” Aziraphale was searching his face, his halo a confused color of upset. It was trying to cajole Crowley deeper into the room, where he could be better defended by a worried cherub.

And Crowley...couldn’t. He was done. No more. Not today. He cleaned up the mess with a snap and retreated to the other end of the cottage. It probably wasn’t far enough to be entirely out of Aziraphale’s range if he really wanted to exert himself, but Crowley had walked right past sense and straight into the arms of a meltdown. As he rounded a corner, he transformed and slithered into the only decent hiding place for a twelve-foot serpent: under the bed.

He was being ridiculous and he knew it but he couldn’t stop. He curled around himself and shoved his nose under his coils, trying to shut away his senses. This form could hardly see and had no ears at all if he left it to its own devices. If he kept his mouth shut, he wouldn’t smell or taste anything, either. Sadly, he could still feel the vibrations in the floor as Aziraphale approached. He coiled tighter even as he railed at himself for being stupid. Morning Star on the very throne of _ hell _, he was a mess.

The vibrations stopped close by and he instinctively tasted the air. Stupid snake brain. It didn’t tell him anything that he didn’t already guess. Aziraphale was some four feet to his left and he had gotten a new glass of scotch on his way over. His halo expanded gently, questing, and settled over the whole room. Oh, they really were going to do this tonight, weren’t they?

He felt the thud of what he assumed to be the angel sitting on the floor, then a smaller one, which he took to be the scotch. Fine. With an irritated hiss, he nosed his way out from under the bed, bumping into Aziraphale’s knee. A warm hand began stroking him and he could just make out the creamy, beige smear of Aziraphale. He raised his head and shoved his nose into the tumbler to investigate the scotch[20], then draped himself into the angel’s deliciously warm lap. Soft vibrations rattled through him from Aziraphale’s diaphragm, and he realized he was probably being scolded. He supposed he’d better listen since had more than earned it.

“-have missed you, my lovely. You don’t spend much time like this, these days. Remember, you used to sleep on the hot water pipes by the ceiling and scare off any customers that got too close?” The tone was gentle and the hands stroking him stayed soft and Crowley officially had no idea what was going on. But it felt very nice and it was really throwing him off. “Do you ever tend the garden like this? Chase away the mice and rabbits? Actually, that sounds quite fun. You’ll have to tell me about it.”

“Ssssssserioussssssssly?”

The hands kept petting. “Of course, dearest. I’ve always been rather glad you came around so often. A shop cat might have scratched up my books.”

And what the fuck was Crowley supposed to do with that? He transformed again, taking his previous form in order to carry on a better conversation, though he was still cradled in Aziraphale’s soft lap. The angel gave a delighted hum and gathered him up to his chest. “Hullo, my love. I’m glad to see you like this, too.”

“I-you-ngk.”

“Exactly so,” Aziraphale agreed sagely. “Now, are you ready to tell me what this is about?” he asked gently. “Or should we have a bath first?”

“Wait. Bath?”

“Yes, I quite agree!” Pleased to have a course of action, Aziraphale rose from sitting cross-legged, Crowley still in his arms, with no trouble[21]. This in no way made Crowley feel small and safe and precious. He only pressed closer to Aziraphale’s chest because it was so squishy and warm and he was still a bit chilly from being a snake.

“Showoff.”

“It’s only showing off if I think it will impress you,” Aziraphale countered serenely. “And holding up a broken mast while the ship is under full sail can hardly be topped by toting around one hundred fifty pounds of serpent.” He had Crowley there[22]. They stepped into an already steamy bathroom and Aziraphale gently set him on his feet. “May I undress you?”

Questions like that invariably knocked the air from Crowley’s lungs. You’d think after two thousand years he'd be inured to it, but no, Aziraphale asking for things that anyone else would take for granted _ still _ did his head in. Breathless, he could only nod.

With a happy wiggle, Aziraphale set to work in silence. He firmly and gently maneuvered Crowley as he needed, and all Crowley had to do was let him. He could feel himself relaxing into a half-aware daze. Eventually, Crowley was guided into the wonderfully warm, fragrant water by sure hands. His angel pressed a kiss to his hair and then undressed himself, sliding in behind Crowley and cradling him between his legs. “There,” he sighed with satisfaction. “I do love that you always indulge me like this,” he murmured into Crowley’s ear. “You just fit so nicely against me.” His halo enveloped them, humming **PROTECT** soft and low and delighted to be fulfilling his purpose.

Crowley’s breath hitched and he drew legs up to hide his face against his knees. He’d almost forgotten how this had all started. _ Empty. Hollow. _ His poor angel. It wasn’t right! How could the holiest creature their mother ever created be exiled and reviled and trapped with only a monster for company? How could She? It killed him that Aziraphale should be denied the love and companionship their kind were designed to share. He could weep tears of blood for knowing that he would never, could never, make love to Aziraphale. Not in the way he might have, six thousand years and an eternity ago.

He didn’t miss the Host. Didn’t miss heaven or his choir mates. Didn’t even miss _ Her _ that much. The only thing he ever regretted losing when he chose to walk away was the intimacy of the halo. “You must be so lonely,” he whispered to his knees. “I’m sorry. Please, please, angel, know that I’m sorry.”

“Hush, darling,” Aziraphale soothed, and it was only then Crowley realized he was crying. “I’m not lonely. What on earth are you sorry for?” His halo swirled anxious caresses on the ruins of Crowley’s core and it was far more than any demon could be expected to endure.

“You deserve proper love,” Crowley gasped, clutching at the hands around his midriff. “And I can’t- you don’t _ know _ . You don't know how much I love you. I can’t make you feel it.” He shuddered. “If I had it to give,” he whimpered as Aziraphale bowed over him, plush tummy and chest pressed to his back. Shielding him. Protecting him. “Give you anything. Everything, if I could.” He caught the sobs trying to escape his throat between his teeth, though the tears were a lost cause. _ Pathetic _.

Aziraphale’s halo slowly crystalized sharp and static with horrified understanding, and Crowley couldn’t contain the moan that ripped out of his chest in response. It was too much like that alley in Ur. Not again, please, not again. “Turn around. Crowley, turn around and let me see you.” He didn’t want to. He didn’t think he would survive seeing fear and disgust on Aziraphale’s face again. Not directed at him. But, as always, he was helpless to do anything but give Aziraphale what he asked for. And, as always, his angel was merciful and let him hide his face against Aziraphale’s breast after a torturous moment of study. “Listen to me.” He tried. He did try, but the clamor in his own mind was so loud and Aziraphale was speaking so gently. “There is _ nothing _ in this world or any other that you have left me desirous of. If you cannot give it to me, then I. Don’t. Want it. Do you understand?”

Crowley trembled with the sincere vibrato of the halo around him. He remained silent for a moment, spinning the words this way and that, trying to make them fit, before finally admitting, “No.” The blunt force sorrow that swamped him after this confession made him gag[23].

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, love.” The worst of it was smoothed away until it was only a dull thud on his temples.

“Sss’alright.”

“It isn’t, but it will be.” Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the crown of his head and began to wash him with what he could only imagine was a miracled cloth. “Did I ever tell you how I fell in love on the wall of Eden?” He hadn’t, actually. If Crowley were to guess, he’d have said Aziraphale probably started coming around sometime in the second millennium B.C. “I had never met a demon before. When I’d fought in the Great War there was no such thing. We were all still angels.” Aziraphale interrupted himself to press a flurry of kisses to Crowley’s brow and cheeks. “And here was one, bold as the red of their hair, walking-er, slithering straight up to the cherub they had just made a fool of. It was very provocative. I’d thought they’d come to start a fight, but I didn’t sense any aggression. In fact, I couldn’t read their intentions at all.

“I saw the crows’ wings at their shoulders and I realized this _ must _ be an accuser[24], which neatly explained the lack of fear. But without the wings, I would never have known. I thought about how powerful a weapon that was; how easy it would be to lure and overwhelm a low ranking angel who had no idea what they were dealing with.”

Crowley’s back was surely clean by this point; now it was just a massage. But he couldn’t find it in himself to protest. “You can take the cherub out of the war, but you can’t take the war out of the cherub,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s throat, though there was no bite to it at all.

“Hush, you. Anyway, here was this mysterious accuser standing beside me, and they started talking, of all things. With their mouth! Just like humans! I was so thrown by it that I answered in kind.” Aziraphale laughed and moved to washing Crowley’s limbs. “They asked me a question, and I answered, and then-oh! Then they did something _ remarkable. _” Here, Aziraphale paused, most likely to gather his thoughts under the guise of finishing up Crowley’s scrub. Wrapping his arms around Crowley with an emotional squeeze, he finally continued.

“They...they smiled. It was blinding. Revelatory. I’d never-” Aziraphale’s voice grew thick. “I didn’t know humans could communicate like that. Share emotions and thoughts in an instant. Like angels. Just one smile and I knew the accuser was curious and delighted and something else that I wasn’t clever enough to figure out, just then.” The arms around Crowley tightened. “For the record, I know now that it was attraction,” Aziraphale laughed huskily. “I-then I realized these weren’t...jumped up monkeys my absentee mother assigned me to keep in the zoo. Humans were just as much a marvel, a masterwork, as any being above or below.”

Crowley looked up at last and saw tears rolling down Aziraphale’s sweet cheeks. He could never leave well enough alone when his angel was crying. He pressed kisses to Aziraphale’s eyelids and ran loving hands through riotous pale hair. “I have you, angel. I have you.”

“You do,” Aziraphale agreed with a watery smile. “Always did, you incredible creature. It was you who asked me to love the earth. It was you who asked me to think about expression-human and angelic. If not for you, my love, I should never have looked at a book at all. Never tasted wine, nor listened to a symphony. You walked this whole beautiful world at my side since the dawn of time and asked me to look at the marvels our mother wrought. You asked me about intention and consequence over and over, until I learned to ask myself.” He held Crowley’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. “Oh, my darling dear. You _ did _ give me everything.” And, okay, yeah, now Crowley was crying again.

They sat wrapped around each other in a tub that dare not cool until its occupants were good and ready to get out of it. Eventually, tears subsided and sweet kisses were exchanged. At some point, Crowley found the strength to sit back. After a few silent moments, staring into Aziraphale’s eyes like a drowning man thrown a rope, he drew a deep breath. “I-ngk. I know...that you love me. Like this. I know that. But it-I can’t…” Coherent speech entirely escaped him. Not now. Not now! This was important!

Aziraphale smiled wryly and pressed a soothing kiss to Crowley’s struggling mouth. “But it’s haunted you for six thousand years,” he finished. “I don’t mind, my dear boy. I’ll tell you the same thing whenever you need to hear it. I will bathe you and tell you the story of the accuser on the wall again. However many times a day, every day, until time stops. And then infinitely into eternity. Is that alright?”

Crowley was still speechless, so tangled his fingers in his beloved’s hair and drew him in for a loving, impassioned kiss, hoping to convey his answer. Aziraphale’s halo thrummed around them. **HEARD**. **ALWAYS**.

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18And definitely didn’t think about those awful(marvelous) thirty six hours he’d spent wearing Aziraphale’s likeness, halo and all. Or the way the Archangel’s halos had acknowledged him even as they laid violent hands on him. Or the way he had reached out to Aziraphale as he was being dragged away, and Aziraphale had felt the love and adoration and RUN, BLESS! RUN! Crowley had flung like a wedding bouquet.[return to text]  
19"You should always be able to get around our home, dearheart. Even on the bad days.”[return to text]  
20Just to make sure it was safe, you understand. And if the glass looked a little emptier after said investigation, that was just an optical illusion caused by the refraction of light in the crystal.[return to text]  
21Heaven may no longer consider Aziraphale to be a formidable warrior, but what heaven considered true and what was objectively true didn’t always jive.[return to text]  
22In fact, Crowley had been so impressed he’d deified Aziraphale and started a cult among the crew. They’d even managed to spread it to several ports of call. The expression on the angel’s face whenever they ran across a sect kept Crowley warm on cold nights.[return to text]  
23They had discovered that Crowley was particularly sensitive to halos not long after the crucifixion, during what would later be called “the harrowing of hell.” It was, as you might expect, rather harrowing. Aziraphale theorized this sensitivity was due to Crowley no longer having a halo of her own to serve as a buffer. Crowley theorized that this was just divine irony.[return to text]  
24The word Aziraphale actually used was “satan,” but language and culture have moved on such that it means something significantly different than it once did. These days, Lucifer had some very specific opinions about how the word was to be used. If anyone had asked Crowley about his designation in heaven, and had he been inclined to answer, he would have identified himself by choir rather than purpose; in the same way that he thought of Aziraphale as a cherub rather than a soldier.[return to text]


End file.
